Blessed is the Fruit
by sbgrrl
Summary: Mary made a choice, and she didn't even know it.


_Title: Blessed is the Fruit_

_Author: SBG_

_Category: mostly pre-series, angst and conjecture_

_Season/spoilers: Pre and 1, spoils the pilot and Home, and if you squint real hard AHBL, Pt. 1_

_Summary: Mary made a choice and didn't even realize she'd done it._

_Disclaimer: The Winchesters do not belong to me. They belong to Kripke Enterprises and The CW. No profit is being made from_ _this._

* * *

Mary Winchester's sleep had been restless for a while, primarily due to the humid heat of summer but also because the baby had only very recently started sleeping through the night. She loved him with her whole heart, but the child was high maintenance. She had grown accustomed to getting up every few hours, and it was hard to break habits and instincts the body developed over time. She found herself still tuned into the baby's schedule. She turned over, wriggling out from under John's heavy arm. She squinted at the clock radio's face, mentally groaned at the time. _Even if I'm used to it now,_ _3:30 AM should be banned from existence_, she thought. Since she was already awake, she decided to get up and rinse off with a cool washcloth, maybe check on the baby again, just because. 

She eased out of bed, aware that John woke easily (unless it involved tending a screaming child, of course). She saw no reason to disturb him, because he tended to be a bear in the morning whenever he was woken up in the middle of the night. Mary rubbed her eyes as she padded to the bathroom. She shut the door quietly, then turned on the light, squinting through the brightness. She grabbed a fresh washcloth from the linen closet, wet it with cold water, wrung it out and wiped her face with it, then down her throat and she lifted her hair to get at the nape of her neck. The feel of her skin drying was refreshing, nice coolness that would help her ease back to sleep. She gave herself a quick glance in the mirror, frowned at the tired dark circles under her eyes. She wondered if they'd ever go away.

She flicked off the light and left the bathroom, heading straight for the nursery. The baby hadn't made a peep all night, and it was a secret love of hers to watch him sleep with his chubby baby fingers tucked up against him, his lips mimicking a faint sucking motion as he dreamt who only knew what. Morning time, daytime, nighttime, whenever he slept she would sneak peeks at any given opportunity. Their little miracle. Mary smiled to herself, thinking about how dark circles under her eyes were a very fair trade. Then she turned the corner and lost her smile.

There was a man in the nursery, and she knew in her gut it could not be her husband. Mary stiffened with alarm, opened her mouth to call out to John but she couldn't. The man turned to her, and his eyes were not real. Couldn't be real. They were yellow and wrong. The man assessed her silently for a moment, while she stood frozen to the spot.

"Hello, Mary," he said finally, and she didn't know how he knew her name. "You're not going to scream, are you?"

Yes.

"No," she said, though it felt as though she wasn't in control of her own speech. _Get away from my son_, she thought. "Who are you?"

"I don't think you really want to know my name." He smiled at her, amiable but cold. Mary shivered and closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them again the man would be gone; a figment of her imagination. He wasn't. He was leaning close to her baby. Her stomach felt like a block of ice. "You've got a fine boy here."

Mary was finally able to move. She took a step forward, instinctively wanting to get between the man and her son. Dean made his sweet baby noises, the faintest of sighs and murmurs. Her heart started racing, because she knew there was no way she was going to prevent this stranger from doing whatever he wanted. She sensed his power, how corrupt it was. She was very afraid. The man looked up at her, yellow eyes glittering in the dark.

"Please," Mary said, willing her voice not to shake. "Don't hurt my baby."

The mysterious stranger stood up, reluctantly looked away from Dean, who was once again silent. Mary stepped closer still, tried very hard not to let the man know how terrified she was. Her fear didn't matter. What mattered was Dean, saving Dean.

"I'm not going to hurt him, Mary. Blessed is the fruit, after all," he said, and his tone was mocking.

"I don't believe you."

He sighed and crossed his arms across his chest. He tilted his head to the side a little, then shook it with a pseudo hurt expression on his face.

"Now, what have I ever done to make you distrust me?"

"I don't even know you," she said, growing more confused than ever by the surrealism of the situation, and by this man's unassuming but threatening manner. "I can't trust someone I don't know."

"What if I told you I have very big plans for your son, that he's very, very important to me?"

"He's _my_ son!" Mary was trembling now, unbelievably cold for the hot, sticky July night. "He can't possibly be more important to you than he is to me."

"I can see you feel strongly about this," the man said.

He drummed his fingers along the top of the crib, gave the appearance of being deep in thought. Mary moved to the other side of the crib and scooped Dean up, pressing his face into her neck. He smelled sweet and fresh and vital and she would not ever let him go. She backed away from the man.

"What would you give to keep him all for yourself?"

"Anything," Mary said, without thinking. She tilted her head up, defiant.

"Anything?"

"Yes."

He laughed at her, then. Dean started to stir, nuzzling into her neck. Mary shushed him, held him tighter, and wrapped her arms around him like a blanket. The man pursed his lips, and shrugged as if giving up.

"It's a bit early anyway. I suppose I could wait," he said. "I could wait for your second born. I'm not sure I can count on that same _certain something_, but I'm willing to take the risk."

Mary's mind raced. That wasn't how it worked. No one ever went after the second born, she thought. It gave her hope. She didn't know if she and John were even going to have a second child, and so the simple solution was just to _not_ have another baby. She breathed Dean's scent deeply. She glanced at the evil yellow eyes, closed her own and nodded once. It was a decision she would never have to deal with. Dean was enough. Dean was perfect. There would be no second born. She felt hands on her arms, tugging gently. She clung to Dean, moaned in distress.

"You can't have him," she said, pulling away from the hands on her and sitting up. "You can't have him."

"Whoa, Mary, wake up, it's okay. It's okay," John said, kneeling next to her on their bed. Her heart felt as though it were pounding out of her chest. She looked at the clock. 3:30 AM. "You must have been dreaming."

"Oh," she said. "I need to go check on Dean."

She glanced at John, who stared at her, but she didn't care. She had to see for herself that Dean was okay. Mary heard her husband follow after her, felt him draw up behind her as she leaned with relief against the bars of the crib. Dean was all right. She reached out a hand, lightly touched her son's soft cheek with her pointer finger. His lips moved like he was suckling. She wanted to pull him up to her, but she simply watched him for a moment.

"What did you dream about?" John said at last. Mary looked over her shoulder at her sleep-rumpled husband, and his warm, concerned eyes. "Mary?"

"Rumpelstiltskin," she said.

John looked confused for a second, then he uttered a soft laugh. Mary kissed his open mouth, not minding his sour morning-breath because it made her feel safe somehow.

* * *

Mary thought about that night and the bad dream frequently for only about a week, and then time and busyness of motherhood got the better of her and it became an unimportant remnant in her memories. The struggles she and John had to cope with now that they were Mary and John _and Dean_ soon settled into family routine, and with every passing day her love for her son grew. It really was true that in a parent's eyes, a child was precious and perfect and Dean was that to her. She cherished every moment with him, loved to watch him as he grew by leaps and bounds. 

At nine months old Dean started crawling, scooting around the house like a little roadrunner. Mary had her hands full keeping up with him, making sure he stayed out of danger (she always held a latent, somewhat unreasonable fear that major harm would come to her son if she was not very careful). At eleven months, he was walking already. A fast learner, her son. She couldn't ask for more.

John could, though, and the only arguments they ever had were about having more children. Even as they argued over and over, Mary could not say quite why she was so adamantly opposed to having another baby. She simply knew that Dean was everything she wanted and needed. But when Dean was two and terrible and exasperating (and still beautiful and perfect), Mary began to wonder what it might be like to have another baby. A girl, perhaps. She didn't know if she could handle an infant with someone as precocious as Dean literally under her foot as well. She mentioned her thoughts to John, whose face lit up with a joyous expression identical to the one Dean produced at times. She could not resist, though something in her belly told her she should.

When Dean was two and a half, she lost him in the market. One moment Mary was deciding between romaine and green leaf lettuce and the next Dean was no longer strapped in the cart. Dean was an escape artist. After several minutes of frantic searching, she found him in the candy aisle charming a teenage girl with his smile and his attempts to speak. On the way home from the grocer's, Mary saw a small New Age shop. She stopped, went in, and felt foolish for following her impulse to buy a pendant that was supposed to offer protective qualities. She tucked it into Dean's baby book, using the cord like a bookmark.

When Dean was three, she was making Christmas cookies with him. She put a hot sheet of baked gingerbread men down for a second while she reached for a spatula. In that time, a mere flash, Dean managed to grab the hot cookie sheet and burned his both of hands. For several minutes, Mary was terrified that he had been damaged enough to warrant a trip to the emergency room, so loud were his wails. She did her best to calm him down (and herself), and got a good look at his still-chubby fingers. They were pink, but she thought he was more scared than hurt. That night, though, and every night after it, she told Dean how angels were always watching over him.

When Dean was about three and a half, John came home to her one night with passion that he had not exhibited since Dean was born. Their lovemaking was intense, all moist with the heat of summer and the heat of their skin and a feeling of near desperation. Mary would remember the night vividly, for she fell asleep in deep exhaustion afterward, but she had troubled dreams. In them, a man with yellow eyes danced and sang, _"Tomorrow I brew, today I bake, and then the child away I'll take," _and then he laughed in a way that sent chills straight into her heart. She'd come awake with John's arm securely around her, and though it was hot and uncomfortable she nuzzled closer for solace and protection. Sleep returned.

She awoke the next morning and knew she was pregnant with their second child. Mary was suddenly afraid.

* * *

Dean had been easy to carry, a joy, even; she had spent nine months feeling wonderful. Mary's second pregnancy was nothing like that, which didn't surprise her so much as disappoint. She suffered severe morning sickness for the entire second and third months, and after that just the thought of chicken made her queasy. Peanut butter was also off her list, a trouble spot when it came to feeding Dean, who had coincidentally become obsessed with peanut butter and jelly. John did what he could to help ease her through her torment and, taking the cue from his father, so did Dean. Their little boy eyed her growing belly with suspicion at first, and gradually began to understand the implications. She had prepared to have several talks with him about what was going to happen, but she did not have to. Dean's excitement grew (he was positive he was going to get a little brother, and Mary suspected he was right), and so did John's. Those things were what kept her going during the day. 

The nights, though, saw the worst of it. The dreams began early on, but from month five on she could not sleep for how disruptive they were. Mary's nighttime visions were full of fire and death and gruesomeness. She didn't know where such horrible things came from, as everything in her life was positive and light. The first time she felt the baby move was after she had bolted awake from a particularly forceful, horrible dream in which a man stood surrounded by blackness, eyes blazing yellow and at his side was a tall, handsome boy with cold, hazel eyes. The baby seemed to swim around in her like a little fish, alarmed and panicked. As soon as her heart returned to a normal level, the baby would settle down as well.

So it was that she began a fast and furious bond with her new little one, and during stressful nights those moments when she'd gently rub her stomach and ease the baby into calm once again became vital to her. She did not dwell on the connection between her dreams and her baby's distress.

She spent the last month on bed rest, too exhausted and sore and big to do much of anything. Every day, Dean would bring her simple crayon drawings, all sunshine and puppies, that she loved and set up around her room so she was surrounded by bright colors. And every day, John would talk to her oversized stomach and hold her hand and hug her. The discomfort she'd experienced throughout the previous eight months seemed to not matter.

Labor was the easiest part of the pregnancy, delivery coming only hours after her water broke. In the first instant she saw her red, squawking, new baby boy, Mary forgot any worries she had had. The bad dreams she had disappeared and she was happy.

Mary didn't know how she'd gotten so lucky. With Sammy she had another perfect baby, if in a slightly different way than Dean's perfection. She had been unable to imagine loving any other child as much as she loved Dean, but every time she looked at Sam her heart seemed to swell and ache with the same tenderness she felt when she looked at Dean. Her love for Dean never wavered. If anything, it grew exponentially as she watched him easily assume the role of big brother, and the love he gave to the baby was bigger and grander than his age would have seemed to allow.

Unlike Dean, Sam slept through the night almost right away. She usually had to wake him for feeding, and she treasured their time alone while John and Dean slumbered in other parts of the house. Sam had a sweet temperament, rarely cried and smiled and gurgled with happiness at the sight of anyone, but especially her. The difference between how he had been in the womb and how he was as a newborn was immense; it was as if he had exorcised any negative traits while he was still inside her.

During the night feedings, Mary usually found herself humming to him without even realizing she'd started to. Also usually, Sammy wouldn't even really open his eyes, but every once in a while she caught him studying her features intently, as though memorizing them. His eyes seemed to her, at times, those of a wise old man instead of an innocent baby. They were familiar and intelligent. She wondered if he might surpass Dean's development rate, no small feat.

As with any family, there was a slight financial strain with their newest addition. It resulted in John putting more and more hours in at the garage. Mary missed her husband, missed how their relationship used to be, but knew the love between them was fundamentally unchanged. It was simply a matter of adjusting to their growing family, and like when Dean had come along, it would take time. John adored both Dean and Sam, and every spare moment he did have was spent with them. For the time being, that was enough. Their balance would return.

When Sam was four and a half months old, the nightmares began again. At the same time, Sammy started becoming restless at night, three nights out of seven John began falling asleep in front of the television instead of in bed next to her, and Mary started leaving the lights on in the hall. She told herself it was just in case John would come up sometime in the middle of the night, but really she thought it was to give her a feeling of protection.

When Sammy was exactly six months old, John didn't come home until it was bedtime for the boys. Part of Mary was frustrated that he got to swoop in and be the hero to Dean anyway, but it quickly faded because she loved watching them together. Once the boys were down, she read while John drank a beer or two and watched television. She had felt a sudden compulsion to have beer herself, but after two swallows her stomach rebelled. She went to bed early, more tired out than usual and she felt slightly ill at ease. She attributed it to the alcohol.

She fell into restless sleep, only to be woken by noises coming from Sammy's nursery. Mary looked over for John, but he wasn't there so she got up and padded down the hall. She was surprised to discover John had actually entered the nursery and was tending Sam, but she accepted it and started to return to bed. The hall light flickered, drawing her attention and then she noticed the television was still on. She hesitantly went down the stairs and saw John sleeping.

Without a thought, Mary raced back up the stairs, her heart in her throat. As she entered the room, the man turned to her and she recognized him. She recognized _everything_ then, and she was filled with dread.

"You," she said, and tried to get to Sammy.

Mary was thrown back against the wall, pinned there for a moment before she began to slide unnaturally up it and onto the ceiling. The yellow-eyed man smiled evilly at her.

"I told you I'd be back," he said, though his mouth did not move. "It's time to claim what's mine."

There was pain, then, such agony she cried out. The physical pain was nothing compared to the sudden memory and knowledge that she had never dreamt this man at all. Mary Winchester screamed and screamed in her head. She saw the yellow-eyed man lean over her son and could do nothing, saw John race into the room, alerted by her initial cry. Watched blood from her body drip into her beloved son's crib, watched John look up at her in horror. Heat all around her, fire burning strong and oh god Sammy.

What had she done, what had she done?

* * *

Mary knew she was dead and that there was nothing left for her in her home, but she could not leave. The nursery was a burned out husk for a long time, and then strangers came and repaired the surface damage. She wandered the rooms invisibly, watched as families came and occupied her space. She did not disturb them, haunted and comforted by their happiness. 

She had no real awareness of time anymore. That had departed with her life and her sons, as since Dean had been born everything in her life had been measured only by her babies' growth and achievements. Everything in her death was measured by regret. Mary supposed years had passed, as she noticed small things like technology and even fashion changing.

Eventually a young woman and her own two beautiful children moved in, and things began to change. With them came a presence cold and dark and wrong and she could no longer passively watch. Mary had failed to keep her family safe, but she would not let the same happen to this new family. She knew she frightened the little girl terribly when she interceded against the darkness, and she did not enjoy that side effect. Still, she had to do what she could. She knew intrinsically that stronger help would arrive.

It did.

She knew the boys before they introduced themselves. _Her_ boys, so handsome and strong. It made her sad to see they were aware of the evil that existed in the world, but it also made her proud to see the way they selflessly fought it for others and for each other. She sensed they had a powerful connection to each other, which also pleased her. Unfortunately, her sons' presence only seemed to make the dark entity grow stronger, more destructive. Mary watched them fight, saw Sammy easily get the children out of harm's way while throwing himself right into Its path. The evil was too much for him…and for Dean…to fight. She fought It silently at first, staved off the worst of the attack. Her soul cried out with every physical blow Sammy took. She managed to hold It at bay until Dean arrived, and only then revealed herself.

"No, don't, don't," Sammy cried, voice filled with pain and wonder.

"What? Why?" Dean said, but did not fire upon her.

"Because I know who it is. I can see her now."

He could before Dean because of what Mary had unwittingly done to him. Dean gaped in stunned silence as she made the flames disappear.

"Mom?" he said in a way that was so four-year-old Dean that it broke her.

"Dean."

Mary could say no more and no less than that. There was no time. He was still her perfect child. She knew the pendant he wore around his neck and was glad for the one good thing she had done. Dean relaxed a little, but did not lose his stunned expression. She moved to stand in front of Sammy, who she now recognized from a long-ago dream and she wanted to cry.

"Sam." He could not move, pinned to the wall in much the same way she once had been. His eyes were old and sad and not one little bit evil. She knew that meant nothing and everything. "I'm sorry."

"F-for what?"

She tilted her head and told him, _"I didn't think you were ever going to exist."_ without speaking. He would hear her anyway. She saw that Sam did, but he couldn't understand what she meant. Not yet.

Long ago, Mary had made a mistake that had cost her family, had cost Sam so much. She could not remedy that, but she could save them this day, right then and there.

And so she did.


End file.
